


Painting my Heart in Colors

by Amari



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: It's great being an art student, M/M, and having an appreciation for art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amari/pseuds/Amari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While not an artist himself, Ray had a true appreciation for anything in the art world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting my Heart in Colors

For as long as Ray remembered, he loved art. Not so much doing it, but looking at it. He loved going to the local gallery and just staring at the works there for hours and hours on end. He loved that people were able to create something magnificent out of something as simple as a plastic fork. The creativity people hold in their brains is incredible for some people to be able to put it into a real form is something he never could get over.

Sure, he tried his hand at drawing, he tried painting, he tried sculpture, but it wasn’t the same. He could never enjoy his own work as he could the work of others. He didn’t have the inspiration these other artists did. He didn’t have the mind to make things of their quality.

But he did have the mind to appreciate it.

And that’s why, despite going to a university for a major in Computer science, he often found himself working code in the Univerity’s art building. The large concrete building was an architect’s dream, full of odd shapes, yet completely functional. Stairs that looked like they floated in air, a large ‘courtyard’ that served a multitude of purposes, ceiling windows that gave a clear view of the sky, the building was amazing.

He found a niche that he often sat in. A small corner with some couches that were reminiscent of a coffee shop, without the coffee, or the shop. It was just far enough away from the music rooms to just hear faint music, but not too loud for him to work,  He felt more at home there on those couches, with student’s artwork plastered on the walls and in the display cases than he ever did in his dorm.

One night he was working on his homework sitting on the couch that at this point could be claimed as his, when he stretched. His spine snapping and cracking as he bent his arms back behind him. He hit a snare in his assignment, the codes were not lining up properly and just turning into jumbled messes whenever he tried to make it work. With a groan he rubbed his forehead. He needed to take a walk.

Ray stood, twisted his trunk, and then went on his way. He passed large-scale charcoal drawings of the models, a few graphics assignments (a class he might consider taking next semester), the typical series of foundation class self-portraits, and all sorts of wire work from the sculpture class. He looked at every single thing, relaxing as he enjoyed the creativity of the students. If he had the money, he really would shell out to these students and buy their artwork. He really would.

As he walked past a classroom, a flash of red caught his eye. His whole body halted as he leaned back to see what had snagged his attention. From outside, it looked like a large red blob, and before he knew it, his feet were moving into the painting room to see what it really was.

He was drawn in by the vibrance of a painting in the back of the room. The room itself was empty. Even as he walked closer he wasn’t sure what it was. But then he realized, he wasn’t supposed to know.

It wasn’t anything. Just a large collection of brush strokes and color, yet methodical and calculated. Looking at this piece of art was like experiencing a song in visuals. A dance of reds and blues, greens and grays. Some straight, some curled, the colors sang in a perfect harmony. The piece was massive as well, taking up nearly half the wall space.  It was the creation of chaotic genius, and Ray knew it. Well, he would if his brain would work. He was lost to the piece, lost to the art as the colors pulled him in. The chorus of paint called out to him, and sung louder than anything else he had ever seen. It held on to him, holding him in place.

Ray didn’t even know how long he had stared at the piece, but after he somehow snapped himself out of his trance, he didn’t feel right. It felt like he lost a part of himself after looking after that piece.

“That was weird.” Ray said to himself. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the lingering fingers of the artwork.

He turned his back on the piece, feeling like he was closing the door on another world.

He would come look at it again another time.

And he did.

He found himself looking at that piece almost daily around the same time. Six o’clock. He noticed the way the lines changed at the artist continued working on the piece. It was almost as if he could see the thoughts that went behind every single brush stroke. “No, this isn’t right, go darker, this is too sharp, lets soften this” and so on. It was amazing, and the artist, whoever it was, was INSANE. Most of the time the paint was just left scattered about, tubes sometimes didn’t have caps on them, brushes caked in paint, scattered cups of water. Ray was sure the artist wasn’t using acrylics, so the water didn’t even make sense. Hell, how they were making this painting with the state of their equipment didn’t make any sense at all, yet it was working together in some god-like miracle.

He really wanted to meet the creator of this piece and talk to them. He wanted to see if they were just as amazing as this piece of canvas and paint. Just once, maybe more than once, however the first conversation went. That is if it ever happened.

—

Well, maybe he would talk to the artist, but not in the conventional way of speaking. The next day he went to ‘visit’ the painting, he found a large rectangle of canvas on the floor next to it. A paintbrush with a bottle of red paint on some palette paper sat next to it. On top of the canvas was a little white sticky note with the words ‘you always stare, you know me, who’re you?’ written on them.

Ray’s eyebrows furrowed together. Did the artist know he was looking at the painting? Was he inviting him to paint him a picture? Even if he wasn’t, Ray was going to paint anyway. If he understood the artist the way he thought he did, he wouldn’t mind at all. He also wouldn’t mind him digging around the plastic container for some black paint as well.

His hand was never steady when he painted, and that’s why he hated it, but he used that to his advantage as he panted haphazard marks on the canvas. An imprecise arrangement of curves and lines that mixed the red and black together.  And then for added effect he put his name and age in the bottom corner, “Ray Narvez Jr. Age 19.”

Even though he had an intense appreciation for art, he was still a snarky bastard and he wanted to show it.

And the gesture was well appreciated, it seemed, by the note and new canvas that was set out for him the next day. “Alright, Ray, using the two colors, tell me why you stare.” There were two tubes of paint next to the canvas, a bright blue, and a minty green.

His painting wasn’t the most creative thing, but he made a swirl, trying to indicate that he was getting sucked in.

And it seemed the artist understood the symbolism, and actually enjoyed the shitty little paintings he was making, as he continued asking him questions and things to paint. “How was your day? What’s your major? Why are your paintings shit? (haha) What are your dreams? What was your past like?” And Ray really enjoyed doing these little paintings every day while noting the progress made on the painting that brought him into the room in the first place. It became a routine, a break from the stresses of school, and he loved it. He loved painting for another person, and his paintings, while shitty, made him feel just like he did when he looked at the artwork of the other students. Amazing.

And then he was caught with another question: “How do you feel about me?”

All the other questions, he was able to respond right away with the materials he was given. But this question stumped him. His hands hesitated over the box of paints and brushes. He couldn’t just paint out his feelings, no. His feelings went beyond his ability to communicate with paint, and no matter how amazing the artist might be, Ray would never be able to convey the right message to them. He felt like he owed this artist for renewing his love for art, he appreciated them for their art, he adored the quirkiness of them and their paintings and this little thing they did. How he felt was far too complex for him to recreate with the tools given to him.

He just sat there, and stared at the canvas, hoping that maybe he’d develop telepathic powers and they’d paint the picture for him. After what felt like two hours, he finally caved, and pulled out one of the paintbrushes. At least he had a paintbrush in hand, and he wanted to call that progress, but the canvass was still naked.

Ray shook his head and groaned. Frustration had long settled in and was almost working against him at this point.

“Not an easy question or something?” a sandpapery voice suddenly said behind him.

Ray nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun around on his behind to look at the source of the voice. A tall man in sandals, paint splattered jeans, and a possibly grey t-shirt (he couldn’t tell with the rainbow of fingerprints that covered it), holding a blue coffee mug stood before Ray. He had a lazy smile cocked to the side as he tried not to laugh at Ray.

“Sorry for scaring you, you’ve just been staring at that canvass for about three hours now, and I figured you needed to snap out of it sooner or later,” the man said before taking a sip of his coffee.

A blush of embarrassment dusted across Ray’s face before he stood up. “Shit, it was that long? I didn’t even notice.” Ray said running a hand through the back of his hair. “Uhm. I’m Ray, I mean, I’m sure you knew that already, but yeah, I’m Ray. Can I assume you are the mastermind behind this thing?” Ray asked pointing at the painting behind him.

Dark eyes flashed at Ray, “Yep. Although I think a better term to describe me would be ‘insane bastard’ and not mastermind. The name’s Joel. Joel Heyman. Age 22.”

Ray chuckled realizing the reference to his first painting, “Nice. I dunno though, I wouldn’t say you are insane.”

Joel shook his mug at the other, “You sure about that, because that thing behind you is a self-portrait, reflecting how my mind works day to day.”

Ray turned around to look at it again. Suddenly it made far more sense than it did before. That’s why it changed so much from day to day, it was everything that made up Joel, and it really showed. It was something that became clear just from looking at Joel and exchanging a few lines between them. The painting was chaotic, ever-changing, and bright. It was another world entirely.

“It’s beautiful.” Ray found himself saying out loud. “I always thought it was.”

“Funny, because I thought the same thing when I first saw you staring at my painting.” Joel said bluntly, causing Ray to spin around again.

Ray wanted to be surprised. He wanted to blush, and feel weirded out by the comment, but he knew. Crazy, chaotic, good. That’s what the painting he adored had been, and it seems that the artist is the exact same way. The words Joel said shouldn’t have made sense, yet they did. Ray was already sucked into the Joel’s world, too far deep to even try fighting it.

“Oh really?” Ray asked, feigning surprise.

Joel nodded his head, “Oh definitely, the way you were lost to the painting was something I have never seen in someone before.”

Ray tried to still his thundering heart in his chest. Something about meeting Joel was sending his body on overdrive.

“And you wanted to see who I was, and since talking is too boring for someone like you, you made me paint myself for you.” Ray said, staring right into Joel’s eyes like he had stared at the painting.

Joel smiled wider and took a step closer toward Ray, “You little genius you, no wonder you work with computers. But you still left a question unanswered.”

Ray raised an eyebrow.

“How do you feel about me?” Joel asked, all joking aside, and seriousness filling his voice.

Just like the moment that caused Ray to gravitate toward the painting, Ray’s feet closed the gap between them automatically. His hand rose behind Joel’s head and pulled him down to kiss him. It was a soft and sweet kiss, carrying all of his feelings that he couldn’t spill on canvass. Joel returned the kiss without hesitation, returning all of the odd feelings of appreciation and care. Kissing Joel was like looking at the painting, like he was a stranger in a new world, exploring new lands and new concepts he never would have considered before.

Unexpectedly, breaking the kiss didn’t bring them back to reality. They were still lost in each other, even after the parting of lips.

Joel let out a breathy laugh, “That tells me everything. Thank you.”

“What do you want me to paint next?” Ray asked, curling his fingers around the back of Joel’s neck.

“Oh, I’ll let you know eventually.” Joel answered, pulling Ray close to his body.

Ray loved art, but he found out that he loved a certain artist above them all. 


End file.
